


Middlemen

by FriedCatfish



Category: Killer7
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-04
Updated: 2018-11-04
Packaged: 2019-08-14 12:30:23
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,959
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16492643
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FriedCatfish/pseuds/FriedCatfish
Summary: It might be inevitable: You work with someone long enough, no matter how you feel at first, you grow attached.





	Middlemen

**Author's Note:**

> you ever start a fic, leave it incomplete for a whole-ass year, then come back to finish it due to getting jazzed about a completely unrelated fandom? 
> 
> anyway christopher mills from cult classic video game "killer7" is extremely gay, let's be real here

Christopher Mills had grown to savor storms. As a kid, he'd hated them — for some reason he no longer remembered, he was absolutely terrified of getting struck by lightning, and every distant _boom_ felt like it was foreshadowing something being shattered, someone falling down dead. But now he was nearing 20 years old, he'd been dealing with criminals since before he got his driver's license, and he'd learned that if you can't move quietly or shoot straight, loud noises and bright lights do a lot to conceal footsteps, gunfire, muzzle flashes. Water does a lot to wash away blood.

So nowadays thunder put him at ease, a welcome counterpoint to the rhythm of raindrops on pavement. Mills figured that things like that were inevitable: _You work with someone long enough, no matter how you feel at first, you grow attached._ _Same principle._

Eventually, he managed to pick out another sound — dress shoes against wet concrete, louder with each step. _Time for business_.

Mills turned to give the approaching man a once-over. He wasn't quite sure what to make of him. Sure, he was intimidating, but that was mostly because he was  **big.** The way he carried himself, the fact that he didn't have an umbrella or a raincoat  _(does he want to show off that his suit's dry anyway?),_ the uncomfortable expression on his face...  _he doesn't look like a guy who belongs in this line of work, that's for sure._ Still, it was too late to back out now, and it wasn't like that guy would be doing most of the legwork; as Mills understood it, he was just a middleman, the guy who told the rest of the Syndicate where to be and what to shoot.

His contact — Garcian Smith, age listed only as "complicated" on the dossier Mills had been given — sidled up to him, clenching and unclenching his hands around the overpass railing. After a deep breath, he managed to speak, his deep, confident tone **almost** managing to make him seem less nervous. "You called about a volunteer opportunity with the Republic Party?"

Mills turned away, looking across the highway again at streetlights and billboards that seemed to waver in the rain. "You know that's just a thing I say in case the phone's bugged, right? Once we're meeting in person, you can ditch the pretense."

"How do you know **you're** not bugged?" Garcian pointed at the long briefcase he was carrying. "Or that this  **case** isn't bugged?"

"I got a sixth sense for these things." Mills tapped his temple. "So long as it's in person. I don't know what's going on at your place or over the line itself, but I can tell you that here and now, nobody's listening in."

"I'll take your word for it. What's the assignment?"

"Something's gonna go down at Madison Square Garden on the 23rd. We haven't been able to figure out much in the way of details — all we know is that there's an attack planned and that the people behind it think it's gonna be 'the future of terrorism.'" Mills straightened his back and sighed. _I better not be sending this guy to his death._ "Just so you know, there's an event planned that night, and we can't afford to tip our hand by having it cancelled or preparing an evac. People are gonna die no matter what, but just how many is gonna depend on what the Smith Syndicate brings to the table."

Garcian nodded. "I know just the man to bring. We'll handle it."

"If you say so. Anyway, you're briefed, so I'm outta here." Mills stood up, but before walking away, turned to face Garcian directly. "You be careful out there, alright, Smith?"

Again, Garcian nodded. "Always."

* * *

 **No. 05:** Eradicate the unknown entities at Madison Square Garden.

* * *

As far as Mills was concerned, nobody should **ever** have to be outside at four A.M. during winter, not if the whole world depended on it. _Could be in bed right now, or at least in a good warm office._ Still, whether or not the **world** depended on it, his  **paycheck** sure did, so here he was. Garcian, funnily enough, didn't seem to mind at all, even wearing that same white suit — no hat, no gloves, no nothing. (Sometimes Mills wondered if the guy had **any** physical needs; as far as he could tell, he never slept, barely ate, just kept moving and shooting until the target was dead before disappearing for another year or so. _Hell, if what they say about the Smiths is true, maybe that's how it works. Never getting any rest, just taking shifts with more or less the same body..._ He stopped himself. It seemed rude to speculate, especially when he knew so little about the Syndicate in the first place.)

He whipped a first-class plane ticket to Marseille out of his pocket (a gesture idly rehearsed a few times on his way to the overpass) and held them out. "So, Garcie. You ever—"

Garcian laughed — something Mills hadn't heard at their previous meetings, and something he wouldn't hear again for quite a while. **"Garcie?"**

Mills shrugged. "Yeah, y'know. It flows off the tongue a little better." He waited a moment for another reaction — didn't get one. "I mean, if you'd rather I not —"

"Call me what you like. Doesn't much matter to me. You were saying?"

"Uh, right. You ever been overseas on business?"

Garcian accepted the ticket and shook his head. "Can't say I have. The FBI taking an interest in affairs outside the country now?"

"We don't have much of a choice. What with the World Peace Movement, the CIA and military have been under heavy scrutiny. Since the FBI is at least _nominally_ concerned only with affairs within America's borders, we're more likely to get away with a sensitive mission like this without jeopardizing negotiations."

Garcian didn't say anything at first. The sound of wind and cars drifted back into Mills' consciousness; then he spoke, forcing it back into the background. "...You think this 'World Peace Movement' is actually gonna work?"

Mills shook his head. "You ever heard the saying 'the opposite of war isn't peace, it's creation?' Most of the governments of the world aren't committed to building a solution that works for everyone — they just want to make it harder to mess with _them_." He drummed his fingers against the railing of the overpass. "The whole 'movement' is just another way for the most powerful nations of their world to enforce their will, and if you ask me, it's gonna come back to bite us as soon as one of the losers finds a way to fight back."

"So even such a noble goal as world peace can be corrupted that easily, made into another tool to advance the will of the powerful... will nothing put an end to the problems of this world?.." He sounded genuinely disappointed, which Mills wasn't expecting — _He's smart enough to know what real world peace would bring, so... who ever heard of an assassin who wants to be out of work?_ Most people in the business had stopped caring a long while ago, or, at the very least, were so steeped in cynicism that they'd given up on the idea of a world without killing. _Garcian Smith_ , Mills figured, _has got to be either the world's meanest saint or the world's nicest lunatic_.

Garcian slipped the ticket into his jacket pocket and prepared to leave. "Well. Anything else I should know?"

Mills let go of his train of thought and nodded. "Yeah, actually. Intel says there might be more of those 'Smiling Faces' around, and what's more, there's almost certainly going to be bodyguards or counter-assassins on the premises as well. Be ready for a fight. But, uh... maybe keep the 'Main Event' as a last resort this time. Better to stealth this one if you can manage it."

"Got it." Garcian walked off, and Mills stared off into the distance, not wanting to stay out in the cold but, for whatever reason, not wanting to move from that spot either.

 _Maybe,_ he thought, _I'll stick around 'til sunrise._

* * *

 **No. 08:** Sabotage the meeting at the White Rose Resort.

* * *

It was the sound of her shoes that was the giveaway. Not flat dress shoes, but heels, _clack-clack-clacking_ against the pavement. Mills made like he was searching for his wallet or a stick of gum — one pants pocket, then the other, then hand into his jacket so he could whip out a 10mm — but the sensation of a shotgun barrel being pressed against his head made it very clear that she hadn't been fooled.

"I wouldn't recommend that," she said, sounding far too gentle for what was going on.

Mills frowned. "Who sent you?"

"I came by your request." If she was annoyed, there wasn't a hint of it to be found in her voice.

"Sure you did. Where's Garcian?"

"Mister Smith is busy working to help the rest of the syndicate recover after their most recent mission. The Master has sent me to do business in his stead."

 _The hell? That was five years ago. What **happened** to 'em? _ Mills took a deep breath. "Alright. Mind putting the gun down?"

She did, and he slowly turned to face her, planning to size her up and figure out if she was really who she said. That ended up being less than necessary, because the instant he realized he was talking to a French maid toting a sawn-off, his doubts were dispelled. "Lemme guess, they picked you up at the White Rose?"

"Yes, Agent Mills. I was originally assigned to destroy the Smiths, but was recruited instead."

 _If it's taking this long for them to recover, she must be one hell of a killer._ Or so Mills assumed, anyway; from what little Garcian had told him, plus the information he'd been able to gather from the aftermath of a couple Smith jobs, it seemed like it took a lot to take them out of commission for a few hours, let alone years.

So she was qualified, and she was almost certainly part of the organization —  _Why don't I feel right givin' her this job, then?_

"Well, whatever. You got a name?"

"Samantha, Agent Mills."

"Samantha...

"... **Smith** , Agent Mills," and this time there was just a hint of disdain when she spoke.

"...Right." _Guess that should've been obvious, huh._ "Well, Samantha, long story short, there's been talk of banning air travel as part of the World Peace process — 'enables terror,' they say..."

* * *

  **No. 09:** Get rid ofthe airplane magnate, Castro Jetblack.

* * *

Every point of contact had their own energy, and you could sense it when you were with them. It was neither physical nor spiritual; it was just sort of a  _mood_ that hung around them at all times. Some people were like the hum of an old refrigerator in a church basement, with a presence that was slightly unnerving and an absence that was worse. Others were like a gravel road on an autumn morning: they left you feeling alone, like they weren't even there, but not  _lonely,_ just kind of... in between things.

For the past several years, the energy the Smith Syndicate brought to every meeting had been like an unarmed explosive. Not dangerous  _in the moment,_ but you sensed and feared the potential there. Today, though, Mills felt a distant but intense warmth, like a forest fire on the horizon, and he was unsurprised when he turned to see not a maid uniform or a long red dress, but the old white suit he knew and loved.

Mills couldn't hold it in — he smiled wide as he clapped a hand against Garcian's back. "Garcie! It's good to see you again! Everybody finally in one piece?"

Garcian smiled back, though it was much smaller, and a part of Mills (a dumb part, the kind of part that doesn't ever shut up, the kind that doesn't care about facts or probability, that just jumps for the worst possibility no matter how plausible it is) told him that he was imagining it — but  _no, that's a smile, alright._ "About as much as usual."

"How's the hellion? That moron finally learn to shoot straight?"

"Wish he **hadn't.**  Nearly killed the Master when he came to."

"No fooling?"  _Man, he's even worse than I thought._ "Well, maybe I should've warned you, they don't call that guy a demon for nothing. You sure you, uh... got him under control?"

Garcian shrugged. "We need him around regardless. It wasn't a typical situation, though — we should be fine now that he's calmed down."

Mills suddenly became aware of a knot in his stomach, just in time for it to disappear. If Garcian was comfortable with the situation, so was he; just seeing him again after so many years was reassuring. He wondered if he should say something more, mention that he'd worried for them, ask if there was anything else he could do —

"So what's the job?"

 _Right. Keep it professional._ Mills cleared his throat and adjusted his position. "UN's finally signing the documents that cap off the WPP. Confirming that all standard WMD have been destroyed, and agreeing not to manufacture any more."

"You didn't call me so we could talk about people  _not_ dying, Mills."

Mills laughed nervously. "You, uh, you don't gotta be so formal," he said. "Just Christopher's fine. And, uh, basically, we're bringing in professionals to guard the HQ, keep an eye out for anyone who might start something. Try and get it to go smooth."

"Not exactly a typical assignment."

"It'll seem a bit more familiar once you see  _why_ we hired you." Mills handed over a manila file folder, which contained exactly one schedule and two Polaroid photographs. Garcian snuck a peek and immediately scowled, which was expected. " **There** you go."

"I see." Garcian slipped it into his jacket, picked up his briefcase, and gave Mills a nod. "I'll be there by sunrise."

Without another word, he headed out, leaving Mills with nothing but a renewed sense of unease.

* * *

 **No. 14:** Stop the terrorist plot at UN Headquarters.

* * *

Business was booming. So to speak.

Mills wondered how the Smiths felt about it. Dan, as far as he was concerned, was a freak — probably thrilled by the chance to spill more blood — and presumably the wrestleman was into it too. _Though wrestling's all fake, right? Maybe real combat wears on him._ The rest of them, though... he had to wonder. Mills didn't know much about them, least of all Harman, and he was less worried by that than he maybe should have been. It just never seemed to come up. Back when he was still a kid, he would've assumed they were all fine with it, but...

_But then there's Garcie._

Garcian hadn't shared much about himself before the '03 attack. For the most part, he had always showed up, taken the mission, and left. After that, there had been no contact until the higher-ups asked Mills to make another call, and that had always been a matter of months if not years.

Not so much anymore. This had to be, what... the fourth or fifth assignment this year alone? The attack on the UN had been the opening of the floodgates, and now scarcely a week passed between Heaven Smile incidents. And with everyone but the Smiths finding it next to impossible to counter their operations, let alone face them toe-to-toe... well, Mills had been seeing a lot more of his contact.

He wasn't complaining. Garcian Smith's voice, face, impossible-to-define  _presence_ — they had become a fixture of his life, at this point. Something pleasant, despite the circumstances.

Mills was aware of what was happening to him. He didn't worry about it, didn't resist it — but didn't act on it, either. The risk of losing contact was too great; he'd just be setting them both up for heartbreak if there was another ten-year absence, or worse, a full-on death. Better, easier, to just give him the assignments, maybe make a little bit of small talk, and go back underground for a few months.

 _Maybe I'll tell him when this all blows over,_ Mills told himself.  _Maybe._

* * *

  **No. 21:** Wipe out the Heaven Smile stronghold.

* * *

By 2011, things had settled into a consistent routine — not exactly a good one, certainly not a  _normal_ one, but still a routine. Word would come down of a Heaven Smile attack, or rumors would spread about a production facility, and the Syndicate would get sent in to stomp it down. Occasionally, they'd be brought in to take out a more _..._ mundane figure that was opposing United States interests, or believed to be in league with whoever was sending these monsters out. None of it was progress, though. It was whack-a-mole, stopping threats as they popped up, and more seemed to arrive every year.

Ulmeyda, though... Ulmeyda wasn't a normal job for anyone involved. For one thing, Mills reached out to Garcian before anyone had reached out to  _him —_  which wasn't necessarily wrong and wouldn't get him in trouble, but it wasn't standard operating procedure. On top of that, what with the whole "prominent business owner hijacking the airwaves to ramble about jacking off, predict a major explosion, and call out an assassin he shouldn't even  _know_ about on national TV" thing, secrecy was entirely out the window.

Mills usually tried to treat every contract seriously — at least for the most part — but with something like this, he had no idea how that was even possible. The instant Garcian set his case down, the only words Mills could find were "who in the hell was  _that?_ What, a new type of stalker?"

Garcian, though... you could hire Garcian to off somebody with a pie to the face or an exploding cigar and he wouldn't even do a double take. The guy seemed to take  _everything_ seriously. "I feel something... like... somebody's calling out to me."

"You can't last in this business relying on feelings. But I trust you know that." Mills felt a bit silly for even bringing it up —  _which one of us has the better track record? —_  and yet... he was worried.

He was  **worried.** Was that normal? No; the only thing he usually worried about was "is this guy going to do the job right, or is he going to screw it up?" As far as he was concerned, any given assassin could die the instant the job was done, so long as it  _got_ done with minimal blowback. Right now, though, he was worried for the Smith Syndicate itself.

He was worried for Garcian.  _If something happens to him..._

"Let's hit Texas first."

"Texas?" Mills replied, only half paying attention at this point.

"The T-shirt. Nobody wears a T-shirt that says 'Texas Bronco...' except in Texas."

"Huh?"

"Time to head south by southeast." And Garcian was off without another word, already certain of what needed to be done.

Mills was still reeling, and still fixated on the same worry — _what if something happens? Not like anyone else can fight the Smiles._

_...But it's not really **about** who can fight the Smiles, is it?_

The routine had barely been broken, and Mills was already starting to miss it.

* * *

  **No. 36:** Find Andrei Ulmeyda.

* * *

The drive to Blackburn's mansion had mostly passed in silence. The whole time, Mills could sense a deep, righteous anger emanating from Garcian, and he simply had no idea what to say.

Normally Mills didn't do things like this. But normally his contacts, especially the most reliable ones, didn't call him in the middle of the night saying things like "We just fought a child soldier and I don't think we won. I need your help tracking down a truck,  _immediately._ "

It didn't take a genius to figure out why the mission was getting to Garcian. The man who had always seemed too sensitive for his line of work was now being asked to deal with someone actively targeting children for death. On top of that, Dan was somewhere in there, desperate to get even with the man who killed him, and...  _wait, how's that work psychologically, anyway? It definitely can't be **great** for either of them, that's for sure._

Still, even with all that... there was a piece that Mills felt was still missing. Something about the way Garcian's voice had cracked when he said "child soldier." Something about the distant look in his eyes. He could tell he wasn't getting the full picture, and it was going to be a problem. Not on a professional level, though he could have justified it that way, but  **emotionally.** Mills had fully accepted it by now: He wanted to do anything he could for Garcian's well-being. To treat him not just as a tool for the government, but as...

No, "as a lover" wasn't happening, if he was honest with himself. But he could at least try his best to treat Garcian Smith as a  **person.** And that meant that after this favor was finished, Christopher Mills had some research to do.

For now, he kept driving.

* * *

 **No. 37:** Get rid of the assassin, Curtis Blackburn.

* * *

For maybe the first time in his life, Christopher Mills felt like he was really  _investigating_ something rather than just acting as a hired gun or a voice on the phone. Almost everything he had managed to find through official channels was either a dead end or an obvious lie, and requesting information above his paygrade would be suicide, plain and simple. He had no choice but to pore over the records he had again and again, looking for any kind of pattern, any kind of flaw in whatever cover-up was going on, until something finally clicked.

And eventually it did. Counting Samantha, six known members of the Smith Syndicate had established criminal backgrounds, ties to the underworld, with everything about their histories before "joining" seemingly tied up in a neat little bow. Garcian himself, of course, was a complete enigma. That left two avenues of approach, as far as Mills could figure. There was the other woman in the group, Kaede, and "the Master."

Harman Smith. A man whose name he'd found in several documents, usually surrounded by blank pages or lines of black highlighter. Something was clearly hidden there, and he was going to find out what.

It took several sleepless nights, but eventually he cracked it. What little information was available pointed to a school in Washington state — Coburn Elementary. One of the oldest in the country, and headquarters of the national Department of Education. 

Founded by one Harman Deltahead.

 _Won't be too long a trip,_ Mills told himself.  _Don't even have to cross state lines. Maybe I'll be finished before anyone notices I'm gone._

Complete bullshit, and he knew it. If half the rumors about this place were true, it was probably under 24/7 surveillance. That was assuming that nobody was  **already** onto him.

But the only other choice was to do nothing at all, and by now he was in too deep.

* * *

 

They weren't going to meet out in the open this time. They would meet in the car. It might not make a difference, but it sure as hell wouldn't hurt, especially if they needed to make a quick getaway.

Mills wasn't exactly nauseous, nor did he have a knot in his stomach. He felt more like his torso was entirely empty, everything inside of it ripped out and sent to some other dimension, and that at any moment his body would realize there was a vacuum there and collapse in on itself.

Dress shoes tapping on the pavement. Knuckles rapping against the passenger-side window — gentle, quiet, but impossible to ignore. Mills unlocked the door; Garcian slipped in.

For a while they just sat there, taking in the moment. There seemed to be a mutual understanding:  _neither of us says anything, neither of us has to move. Neither of us has to worry. We can just be two people in this car, sharing a moment. Neither of us killers. Neither of us government agents._

_Neither of us — heh — "dead men walking."_

But then again, Mills figured, maybe Garcian was just too polite to interrupt his fantasy. He'd have to do it himself, then.

"The remnant parties have started making their move."

"I felt the disturbance in the air. What's gonna happen?"

 _All business, as usual._ Mills laid out the mission, like usual: Background. Location. Target. Find Kenjiro Matsuoka, squeeze him for intel, figure out what the remnants of the Japanese government were planning. Garcian had few questions —  _hell, I just explained the situation and he seems to have a better grasp of it than I do._

A long pause, and then Garcian spoke unprompted. "The Master has disappeared."

 _Now or never, then,_ Mills told himself.  _Not like there's gonna be a better time._ "Uh... yeah, Garcie. About that." He sighed.  _How the hell are you supposed to **talk** about something like this? _ "Look. I need to tell you something **real** important."

Garcian nodded. "Go ahead. Lay it on." Still as cool as a cucumber... still everything Mills, increasingly sweaty and hesitant, wished he could be. Wished he could  **have.**

"Let's see... how should I... okay." On some level, he knew he wouldn't get the words out. He still had to try. "Thirty years ago, you and Harman —"

Two gunshots, a sharp pain in his head, and Mills was gone.

* * *

 

 _Is this what death is like,_ Mills wondered,  _or is this something special?_ He was... only sometimes present, as far as he can tell. Fading in and out like he was badly ill, massive chunks of time passing him by in an instant.

But he was with Garcian Smith now. Forever, maybe.  _Talk about getting attached._

Frankly, though, it was the best he could have hoped for.

The truth would be revealed soon. Only a matter of time. Mills wondered if his contribution had made a difference, or if he got killed for nothing at all.

_Does it really matter, at this point?_

* * *

 

Garcian Smith stepped out of the elevator and into the seventh floor hallway. Christopher Mills — what was left of him, anyway, be it a ghost or a memory or a delusion — stood in the corner on the other end, looking at him. Sadness in his eyes, but love, too, and maybe a small amount of hope.

Garcian glanced at the doors on his left, and chose to ignore them for now. It wouldn't kill him to speak to the Remnant first. Might even clear his head.

 

Mills saw the red in his eyes, the moisture on his cheeks.  _Even now, when he can't deny what he's done... who he used to be... he still hates to see needless death and destruction, doesn't he?_ Mills smiled. Maybe, if he hoped hard enough, Garcian Smith would stay that way. Kindness and honor shining through, in spite of everything. "Emir Parkreiner" finally put to rest, the demon's hunger sated.

Right now, though, he could tell that Garcian needed to  **receive** some kindness more than anything. "Why the glum face? What happened?"

Garcian tried to hold back the tears. He failed.

"Garcie, don't cry. That ain't like you. The last thing I want to see is you crying, Garcie. It just don't feel right."

That just made it worse — try as he might to keep quiet, look professional, Garcian started sobbing. He could keep it together for a few seconds at a time, but would inevitably break, gasping for air, steadying himself on the wall (hand going right through Mills's incorporeal body).

"I see... I realized it after I was killed." More than anything else, he wanted to reach out and place a hand on Garcian's shoulder — but, of course, he couldn't place his hand on  **anything** now. All he had left were his words. "I can see through your mask into your heart."

Garcian shut his eyes as tightly as he could and took a deep breath. The tears wouldn't stop any time soon, but at least he could retain  **some** dignity.

"Garcie, what's this emotion I'm seeing? Tears of sadness? Or tears of hate? Tears of joy, or of loneliness? Or mercy?"

He received no response, and at the same time, the words  _yes, yes, yes to **all** of it,  **everything** you said _rang out in his mind.

Mills continued. "I really have no idea, except that I've never seen tears like those." (He did not say:  _I've never seen tears so genuine. So beautiful._ ) "The only way to wipe those tears away... is to overcome the past." (He did not say:  _Let me help you. I may not be able to do much, but anything I can do, anything at all, I'll do for you, Garcie._ )

Silence, but the tears were finally slowing down.

 _I've said about all I can,_ Mills decided.  _I can only hope that it's enough._  "A person doesn't get into this line of work without a complicated past. Enter the final room. Meet with Him. Then you can get on with things."

Garcian nodded, wiped his face. It took him a moment to pull away from the wall and straighten himself out, standing up at full height again, but he managed it.

Before he could leave, though, Mills changed his mind. There was one last thing to say after all. "Times are tough for both of us."

Garcian laughed. Mills hadn't seen anything like it in years. And he'd  **never** seen something that made him anywhere near as happy.

"I'll be waiting for you in my new sleek on my side of the world."

And without another word, he was gone.

 


End file.
